December 29, 1990. Soldier Field. Chicago Bears versus Kansas City Chiefs. Week 17. Everything on the line.
We're 10-5. The Raiders are 11-4. Win and have them lose, we get the division, a first-round bye, and home-field advantage. Lose or have them win, we're the wild card playing on the road against Dan Marino and the Dolphins.
High stakes. National television. Saturday game on NBC.
And I can barely walk.
The week before, against the Chargers, I kicked the game-winning 32-yard field goal that clinched our playoff spot. While everyone else was celebrating, I was hobbling off the field. Strained and hyperextended my knee. The medical staff said it was bad.
We had a short week—Saturday game instead of Sunday. Limited practice. I was noticeably limping during warm-ups. Hobbling on the sidelines. Reporters were writing about how bad I looked.
And then there was the weather.
Soldier Field in December is never friendly. But this was brutal: 13 mph winds. Below freezing with windchill. Muddy field, and foggy. The ball felt like a rock. In Chicago's previous two home games that month, four field goals had been missed—two by each team's kicker.
First points of the game. Easy "Chip shot" by NFL standards, but with a hyperextended knee and 13 mph winds? Nothing is automatic.
I went through my ritual. The same steps I'd done ten thousand times:
Good. Chiefs 3, Bears 0.
Bears tied it 3-3. Now we're back out. Thirty yards. My knee is screaming. Every step sends pain shooting through my leg.
But here's what I learned about pain: you can either let it consume your focus, or you can use it to sharpen your focus.
The injury forced me to be MORE precise with my technique. I couldn't rely on power. I had to rely on perfect mechanics. The Mantra: "Stay within yourself"
Good. Chiefs 6, Bears 3.
Now we're getting into real distance. Forty-three yards in 13 mph winds with a hyperextended knee. This is where some kickers would start missing.
But I'd been here before. Not physically—I'd never kicked injured like this in these conditions. But mentally? I'd practiced in worse.
I'd kicked for hours in 28-degree weather with 30 mph winds when nobody was watching. I'd deliberately practiced in conditions harder than games.
So when game day arrived with 13 mph winds, part of me thought: 'This is easier than practice.'
Good. Chiefs 9, Bears 3.
The Bears had just taken their first lead, 10-9, after a 95-yard punt return. Momentum shifted. The crowd was electric. We had one chance before halftime to get the lead back.
This is where the 90-second reset matters. I'd just watched the Bears score. I could have dwelled on losing the lead. Instead:
Good. Chiefs 12, Bears 10 at halftime.
Four kicks. Four makes. Every single Chiefs point.
We're controlling the game. Dominating time of possession. But we need points. Fourth quarter. Thirty-eight yards.
My knee is worse now. Three hours of standing, walking, kicking in below-freezing temperatures. Everything is stiff. Everything hurts.
But there's something about being in the arena when everything is on the line for your team that makes you forget the pain. The pressure drowns out the physical discomfort.
Fear wanted to scream: 'Your knee can't handle this! What if you miss? What if you look weak?'
But intuition whispered: 'You know what to do. Trust the process. Execute.'
I listened to the whisper.
Good. Chiefs 15, Bears 10.
We won 21-10. Dominated every statistical category. Held the ball for over 41 minutes. Held Chicago to a 21.7% completion rate.
But after the game, all anyone wanted to talk about was the kicker who went 5-for-5 on a hyperextended knee in brutal conditions.
The three other times I made five field goals in a game? All at Arrowhead. All in 48-66 degree weather. Perfect conditions.
But maybe the best game of my career? Below freezing. Winds. Injured. On the road.
After the game, reporters asked how I did it. I told them something that sounds crazy but was absolutely true:
When you're injured and conditions are terrible, you CAN'T coast. You HAVE to be perfect with every single element. Adversity forced me to be more disciplined than I would have been if everything was easy.
That game was the culmination of everything the 30-Day Arena Challenge teaches:
Same steps before every kick. Injured or healthy. Perfect conditions or brutal. The ritual created consistency when everything else was chaos.
When the Bears scored and took the lead, I had 90 seconds to reset. Acknowledge, release, refocus, execute. No dwelling. Just recovery.
I'd practiced in worse conditions than Soldier Field. So when game day came, part of me recognized it as familiar. My training was harder than my competition.
Fear screamed about the injury, the weather, the stakes. Intuition whispered: 'You know what to do.' I listened to the whisper.
Imagine what you'll learn—and become—by Day 30. The complete 30-Day Arena Challenge teaches you the same elite mental training techniques that cost professional athletes $50,000+. Now available for $9.99.
Your arena is waiting. Your Soldier Field moment is coming.
The question is: Will you be ready?
